Accept
by Lauryn Vi
Summary: People are always beautiful before you get to know them. Willy Wonka prefers to keep it that way. Yet at some point, we all have to let go, and jump in. [In progress.]
1. Falling

_A/N: This is based on the 2005 movie version of Charlie and the Chocolate factory._ _All rights reserved for said movie, and of course, the amazing Dahl. :P_

_At some point during the two hour movie, I became captivated by Willy Wonka's erractic personality - loneliness, hilarity, quirkiness, charm, and all. I became greedy. The entire point of this story was originally so I could see more of this intriguing yet all too real character. I invite you to join the fun, and perhaps along the way, we'll find that we've stumbled across one truth or another. :)_

_Enjoy!_

* * *

_Ping. Ping. Ping. Clank. _

Charlie Bucket looked up from his homework. The erratic sounds above his head had been getting steadily louder with ever increasing urgency for the past hour.

_Clunk. Ping. Ping. _

Maybe his father was trying to fix the gutter. The sugar-fall just a few weeks ago had dumped such a heavy load of powdered sugar on their gutter that it had bent and caved in towards the roof altogether. His mother had suggested calling the Oompa Loompas to repair the damage, but ever since his father had patched up the machine that replaced him at the toothpaste factory, he believed he could fix anything.

_Ping. Ping. _

Then came an inevitable loud 'clunk', followed by an even louder 'crash'.

Charlie expected his father to let out a string of profanity – not, of course, that his father was prone to swearing. But whatever just happened out there sounded particularly painful.

"Yeeeowch!"

Sufficient to say, he was somewhat surprised when this reached his ears instead. However, he was less surprised as he heard the resulting "That HURT", through a bout of giggling.

It hadn't been his father up there after all.

Charlie shut the book he had been pouring over – 'Style and Form – an Interpretive Guide to the Dances of LoompaLand' – stood up, and went outside to investigate the damage.

There was nothing on the roof.

A soft chuckle caused Charlie to look high above him. And there, suspended between the sugar shakers by a loop of wire that had gone obviously awry, desperately holding on to his top hat with one free hand, clung a man wearing a plum-colored velvet overcoat, and black pointed boots. He knew this strange apparition well.

It was Willy Wonka.

"Umm – Little Boy?"

The slightly anxious nasal voice floated down to him as he stared up in incredulity. Even after four years, this man never ceased to astound him.

"Mr. Wonka? What in the world are you doing up there? Are you all right?"

"Yeah. Yeah. I think so. I'm a bit scared of heights, and it's so darned high up here. But no worries. I'm okay. Heh." His feeble giggle trailed off as he struggled to straighten himself, still dangling from the thin wire.

Charlie could almost hear the inaudible gulp in the silence that followed, only broken by Willy Wonka's arduous breathing. He bit his lip, unsure whether it was due to worry, or because he was holding back a laugh.

"Umm – Mr. Wonka? I hate to inform you, but the wire you're holding on to is snapping at the top."

"Oh. Yeah. I'm very glad you pointed that out. About that."

He looked down at him, smiling pleasantly – Willy Wonka was always smiling pleasantly, it seemed – and even from this distance, Charlie could see the glint of his sparkling, white teeth.

Suddenly, there was a loud ripping sound. "Whoa, Whhhhhoa!"

Willy Wonka was now dangling from a single fiber. "Umm – I don't like it so much up here. There is a way down, right? I'd greatly appreciate it if you could point that out for me, too."

The thought, 'I'm sure if you just hang on for a few moments longer, falling could be your way down' crossed Charlie's mind, but he vetoed that. He knew Mr. Wonka was a whole lot more scared than he let on – it probably wasn't a good idea to push him over the edge.

He thought for a moment longer, a bit harder.

"Wait. Mr. Wonka, there's a long piece of wire right behind you. Can you grab it? It's closer to the ground than the one you're hanging on to. You could swing yourself down."

"Swing?" Willy Wonka's voice climbed several octaves and became twice as childish.

"Yes. Right behind you. There's a wire."

"I can't reach it. I'll fall if I let go. I'm a candy inventor – not a trapeze artist! Duh."

"Let go of your hat, Mr. Wonka! ("My hat?") You can reach it then." In these four years, Charlie had developed a patience unheard of with this peculiar, idiosyncratic man.

He watched as Willy Wonka dropped the hat, and caught it before it hit the floor. This outdated top hat was Mr. Wonka's prized possession – next to his candy, of course – it wouldn't do if something happened to it.

"Now. What was the next step?"

"Reach! Wire! Behind you!" He hopped shorter sentences might be able to have a larger effect on Mr. Wonka than his previous long-winded explanation and persuasion.

"Oh. Right-O. Here goes, then. Here I go!"

The figure above him deftly made the leap onto the adjacent wire, and slid down its length until he was less than five feet from the ground.

Not bad, Charlie thought, not bad at all, for a candy inventor. It must have been all the practice he got in LoompaLand.

"…Now… what?" Mr. Wonka's voice, he thought with much amusement, (now that it became evident that his strange companion wasn't going to break his neck with a long fall, he felt he was entitled to some amusement.) was trembling.

"Jump?" Charlie suggested.

Willy Wonka looked like he was going to throw up at the idea – and as Charlie was standing just beneath him, this didn't look like such a promising prospect.

"It's not very far," he hasty rejoined. "Just swing yourself to this nice patch of beautiful green grass right over here… like so. It won't hurt a bit."

"Are you – are you sure? Absolutely sure? Absolutely positively sure?"

"…Yes."

Moments later, Willy Wonka stood beside him, dusting off his hands with a very accomplished (and silly) grin on his lips. At this close proximity, Charlie could see a moist veil of perspiration covering his pale face, and his sleek hair was rather ruffled, but other than that, he looked all right.

He smiled widely as Charlie wordlessly handed him back his top hat, and reached up to rest it jauntily on top of his head. Charlie thought it might be best to wait until he caught his breath before striking up a conversation, but Willy Wonka beat him to it, breathless as he was.

"_Wow_."

"Wow?" Charlie stared. "Are you crazy? You could have been killed! What were you doing up there, anyways?"

"Changing your rain spouts, of course, Little Boy." Giggle.

Despite his frustration, Charlie couldn't help but feel a spark of gratitude. To make them feel more at home, Willy Wonka had the Oompa Loompas install several rainspouts over their heads, along with the sugar shakers. After all, you might as well enjoy both the snow and the rain if you're going to enjoy any at all.

That was all very nice and dandy – but the problem was, the fluid falling from the spouts wasn't water. It was cherry soda. Now, this would also have been nice and dandy, if it didn't create a sticky mess every time it rained. Charlie had managed to convince Willy Wonka to change the spouts so it rained actual water ("but what is the fun of that?"), but never supposed he would take it so much to heart that he would actually attempt the task himself.

"That was fun."

Oh. I'm glad to know you enjoyed your encounter with death. Charlie had learned to hold in most of his repartees towards Mr. Wonka, partly because he didn't want to hurt his feelings, and also because he didn't think Mr. Wonka would get it, anyways.

"…But it didn't work out _quite_ as well as I had expected. It's very hard to hold on to nothing but thin wires _and_ fix them at the same time, especially when you're afraid of heights, you know."

Two pairs of eyes surveyed the scene above them. The violet pair blinked bemusedly, while the dark brown pair looked skeptically at the tangle of wires suspended in midair.

Charlie smiled. Seeing Willy Wonka look slightly disappointed and perplexed (more of the latter), he said quickly, "Don't worry, I'm sure the Oompa Loompas can have it fixed by tomorrow."

"Oh, hey. Yes. Yes, that's a good idea. I don't think I'm _quite_ ready to try again." Willy Wonka looked around and made the sound that Charlie secretly called 'the goatlady call' – based on a French play he had once seen, where an orphaned girl grew up with goats and made that sound with the tongue all the time. Although now he knew from all his LoompaLand reading it was actually the 'Get-your-ass-over-here-I-either-just-want-to-say-hello-or-I'm-in-trouble-and-need-to-be-saved' call.

From a nearby chocolate powder covered path, a tiny man wearing a red jumpsuit came forwards and bowed before Willy Wonka. Willy Wonka bent forwards and gave the Oompa a few directions, punctuated with much hand gesturing and jabbing at the air.

Once both parties had bowed, arms crossed, and the Oompa Loompa had scampered off, Willy Wonka straightened up with a big smile.

"Beautiful. Now, we've still got tons to do today, Little Boy. Come on, I want to show you this new idea I had been working on all morning. You know those roasted marshmallow drops?"

He began walking towards the small door at the far side of the room, eyes shining with the excitement of his new idea, lips curved in a slight smile. In fact, he was so absorbed in his thought that he failed to see his brightly stripped cane lying innocently on the grass. Charlie, who was following close behind, reached out and grabbed his arm to stop him from tripping. He had stopped Mr. Wonka tripping so often in the past, the motion no longer required thought.

Absentmindedly, Willy Wonka reached down to pick it up (after staring at it for a moment), saying all the while, "Well, I think I made the _perfect_ ingredients to grow the most darn beautiful marshmallows. See, you need a thick green minty syrup, with a bit of walnut, hazelnut and a dash of dark chocolate…"


	2. Reaching

_A/N: Thank you buckets (no pun intended ) to all of you that supported this chapter of mine: Miran Anders, word junky, Devilish Kurumi, ack, Nautical Acronym, TheHomicidalManiac777, The Island Hopper, Hellsfirescythe, Amorette, tinks-belle85, Sailor Fire Dragon, DibMagician, The Maine Coon Cat, Super Lizard, tenshi-no-fushigi, Countess Vladislaus Dragu, Wicked Seraphina, Telanu, onnawufei_

_This not being a style I'm all that familiar with, I've floundered several times already – and this is only the second chapter. :P But Wonka (and Wonka adorers) have the power to keep me in my chair, swinging my legs, and trying to figure out what happens next. Lolz. So for that, I thank you. :)_

_A few general things that have been asked more than once, though: No this is not a one-shot story (obviously. Lolz. I might like to twist fate a little, and instill a _leetle_ cruelty to my characters, but I'm not THAT mean, Wicked Seraphina! Lolz.), but I'll try my best not to draw it out too long so it becomes boring, either. Ten chapters or so, give or take a few. _

_That first chapter – I don't know if it was evident – was kind of like a prologue. An analogy for the 'let go, jump in' theme. From now on, the story will become slightly more complex, slightly darker, and who knows, I might even introduce a bit of romance further along. _

_As for "Wonka should be calling Charlie by name." Yes, I know. And I do have an explanation for it. It'll appear in… thinks, a later chapter._

_And lastly, a clarification for Amorette. I hope I'm interpreting this correctly. If so, I absolutely agree that Charlie is still fascinated by Wonka's genius, and on the candy-factory level, Charlie and Wonka are still on the student/mentor premises. But through all other sense, I have somehow come to see Charlie and Wonka as equals, as friends, as… well, who knows. Lolz. _

_Btw – I'm so glad to see all these beautifully, stupendously written Wonka fanfics around. :) Just last week, there were only (gasp!)… 12! Lolz. _

_Anyways, finally, I present you… drum roll... chapter two!_

* * *

"Mint leaves - crushed, walnuts… hazelnut crumbs… a glob of dark… chocolate…melted?"

Charlie read the ingredients out loud as he carefully added them one by one into the syrupy mixture. He regarded the resulting product dubiously. It seemed very – odd, (not to mention very unattractive). The entire concoction was a dark brownish-green, very similar to what he would have called 'mud', with bits of – stuff, swimming around. It was so undesirable, he thought, that he didn't even have the words to describe it.

But Willy Wonka knew what he was doing. He always did. He never worried that something might go wrong – because in the end, the product always turned out so incredibly…

Right.

He sighed. This was his first time making a new their new invention by himself. Mr. Wonka had always been beside him, always more excited then he was… "The bestest thing in the world," he had said upon many occasions, "is being able to make what you feel. Yeah. Look!" (And he would always hold up a handful of goop or whatever it was that he was making.)

Yet this time, Charlie hadn't seen him in the inventing room at all. An Oompa had told him that Mr. Wonka had given him the go ahead to start the new project without him. He thought this was oddly out of character.

In fact, he hadn't seen Mr. Wonka since that day he tried to fix the water spouts almost a week ago – or more than a week ago. It was sometimes very hard to keep track of time in the factory.

This, he thought, was also strangely out of character. Mr. Wonka had always been all over the factory (sometimes at the same time, it seemed) – Charlie could almost swear there was more than one of him.

What happened, then? What went wrong? For when Mr. Wonka was out of character, the 'always' that Charlie had grown so used to seemed to end. It unnerved him.

Charlie thought back to the past few weeks, looking for things that may have upset his strange mentor. This, he found, wasn't so easy, as the things that upset Mr. Wonka were quite different from things that upset other people. For example, he would look sadly at a layer of dust that covered a table or particular piece of equipment, yet he could care less about the mess they made while creating candy. In fact, the messier a place was, the happier he looked.

He hated things that remained still or neglected for long periods of time. He preferred things that whirled in perpetual motion and made lots of noise.

The last time he was at Charlie's house, he found a wad of bills. He had stared at it for a long while, muttering and frowning to himself. But that problem had been solved when Grandma Georgina had said, "why, we don't need these little pieces of paper in this place!" and cheerfully threw the entire wad into the fire.

Then what…? Suddenly, Charlie remembered with a jump of guilty conscience. This was an anniversary. Not any anniversary, though. A death anniversary. The elder Mr. Wonka passed away around this time two years ago. Although he had never observed father and son being terribly close, this, he thought, was enough to upset anyone. And Mr. Wonka was a sensitive someone.

'I. Am. Such. An. Idiot.' He thought, giving himself a mental kick with each word.

Thinking back to last year, he remembered that Mr. Wonka had not been so terribly upset. Certainly he had not gone into reclusive hiding for a week. Maybe there was something more this time. Additional influences.

He wondered whether there was anything he could do to console Mr. Wonka. But… all he was good for was to listen, and the only comfort he could bring were through words. And words, he had decided long ago, were meaningless.

Yet maybe Mr. Wonka was lonely. Charlie imaged him sitting on top of Fudge Mountain in the middle of a whirling snowstorm, half frozen and very much alone. He imagined Mr. Wonka's smile, frozen in place – not because he wanted to smile, but because he couldn't do otherwise. Charlie shivered. Perhaps it would be enough just to find him and be with him for a while.

That's it. I'll go visit him, he decided. At least I can tell him the marshmallow medium is ready.

He had reached the door of the inventing room, when he paused, realizing with a sickening frustration he had absolutely no idea where Mr. Wonka might be. All in all, the factory was a large place. Which was in itself an understatement.

The obvious solution was that Mr. Wonka would be in his room. After all, one's room was meant for sulking, for raging, for crying (although Charlie had trouble visualizing Mr. Wonka raging – or crying, for that matter). Yes, he decided, I'll try his room first.

This decision in turn posed some difficulties, as he had never been to Mr. Wonka's private rooms. In fact, he didn't even rightly know whether Mr. Wonka _had_ a room. Certainly he had never mentioned it, or hinted where it might be. But that was ridiculous – every self-respecting humanoid needed some sort of escape once in awhile.

Charlie sighed, massaging his forehead. Why do things always have to be so incredibly difficult? Finally, he made the goatlady call for help. If anyone knew where Mr. Wonka's room might be, it would be the Oompa Loompas.

He watched as a little woman came up to him, and bowed respectfully. In his turn, Charlie bent down almost double, in order not to be looming over her.

"Sir? You are done with the equipment?"

"What… oh right, yes. Yes I am. But I was wondering, rather – have you – have – you haven't seen Mr. Wonka lately, have you?"

The Oompa paused, thick brows furrowed. " No Sir, but I believe Boss is in his room."

Charlie felt elated. Finally, some light shone on his confusion. Things were going well. "Is he? Can you tell me how to reach him?"

His spirits quickly dropped as the Oompa's face fell. She didn't know, or wouldn't tell, Charlie thought. Which means I'll probably be spending the rest of the day – week, month, however long it took – looking for Mr. Wonka. Or worse, _worrying_ about Mr. Wonka.

But the next thing he knew, the tiny figure was tugging at the hem of Charlie's shirt, pulling him forwards with a surprising about of energy for such a small person. He followed, curiously.

The Oompa Loompa brought him to the infamous glass elevator, sliding open the door and motioning for Charlie to step in. He did so, willingly. Although he hadn't quite figured out how to sense the presence of this elevator (but much better than Mr. Wonka), nor could he yet call the elevator upon command like Mr. Wonka could, but he had still used it many times in the past.

He looked down at the Oompa for further direction, and saw that a little arm was pointing towards the top of the elevator, above the very first row of buttons. Almost at the top of the elevator, there was a shiny, silver button. Looking up in dismay, he saw it was labeled "Mine".

"_That's _it?" Charlie whispered. The Oompa Loompa nodded. He stared. It was so tangibly close, yet beyond his reach of 15 years. In fact, he doubted Mr. Wonka could reach it very easily, either. With his outstretched cane, maybe. Now he understood why the Oompa had looked so discouraged.

How like Mr. Wonka, to have the access to his room be a small, shiny, out-of-reach button on top of everything, and labeled 'Mine'. He imagined this was some sort of snide joke his self-loving Mr. Wonka made towards the short population of the world. He imagined Mr. Wonka chuckling to himself, and the ghost voice of his mentor whispered gleefully in his ear, "Shorty." Honestly, how rude of him.

As Charlie considered how he was going to reach the button, or whether he should bother trying at all and just let Mr. Wonka freeze, the Oompa had bowed and left him. Reasonably enough – unless Charlie planned to toss her into the air like a tennis ball, there was no way the Oompa could help him, now. His father could probably reach it, but by the time he returned with him, the glass elevator would probably no longer be waiting here. The prospect of a factory-wide hunt for it didn't appeal to him in the slightest.

He stretched, testing the limits of his arm. He jumped. He even retraced a few steps out of the elevator and took the jump at a run. But no matter what, his fingers always fell a few inches too short of the button.

"Gosh darn it!" He swore, pulling a Mr. Wonka in frustration.

He scowled at it. He raised his eyebrow. He pouted. More Mr. Wonka.

Nothing.

Just as he was about to give up and find another method, he remembered. A moment that happened not long after he moved into the factory…

_Charlie stood on the banks of the chocolate river – he enjoyed its thick gurgling, and particularly enjoyed popping chocolate bubbles formed by the waterfall with a candy cane. ('No touching my chocolate with any part of your body!' Had been Charlie's first rule in the factory.) It always made such a sickening satisfactory, gluttonous 'pop'._

_Suddenly, he felt a very chilly breeze blowing at his neck, causing his hair to stand on end. 'The wind', he thought, before remembering that he was indoors, and there _was _no wind. _

_The unsettling breeze came again. He turned, and found himself almost nose to nose with a very pale face, and wide, violet eyes._

"_Boo." _

_Given all circumstances, Charlie screamed. He stumbled backwards, and almost fell into the river before catching himself. _

_His ghost straightened up, and Charlie recognized the weird haircut and dark top hat. Mr. Wonka was grinning like a Cheshire cat._

"_Got ya."_

_Charlie scowled. Even after a few months in the factory, he had come to realize that it was impossible to scold Mr. Wonka for anything. That was just the way it was. He settled with a "what are you _doing_ !"_

"_Giving you a surprise, of course. Yeah. Do you like it?" He smiled playfully. _

_Charlie raised his eyebrows; rather bewildered and suspecting Mr. Wonka was making fun of him. "Like it? You must be joking."_

"_Joking? No, no. Not I. Not this time. I invented it myself, see. It's very _very_ special."_

_He wondered if he had heard right. "Wait. You invented creeping up behind people and whispering 'boo'? And that's supposed to be very very special?"_

"_Huh?" Mr. Wonka looked momentarily confused. "You mean I didn't give you the - ?" He reached inside his coat pocket with a gloved hand, and sheepishly pulled out three small pieces of neatly wrapped candy. "Well, look at that. I guess I forgot." Giggle._

_He motioned for Charlie to stretch out his hand, and dropped all three pieces into his palm. Charlie brought them closer and examined a piece. It was rectangular, beige, with a large 'W' – for Willy Wonka, he assumed – stamped on it. It looked altogether quite unremarkable._

_The pieces rested lightly in his hand – always weightless. (Very appropriate to suit its function, Charlie thought now.) He looked up inquiringly at Mr. Wonka._

_"This is great. Why, I invented it not long ago. Haven't been able to do it again since, though. Sometimes, candy is like that, you know. Yeah. But have one, and there's enough fizz inside to lift you off the ground, see? If you want, even enough to take you far, far away." His eyes fairly sparkled, and even his hair seemed to quiver with excitement. (In fact, now that he thought back to it, it might have been because Mr. Wonka had been literally bouncing with glee.)_

_Charlie examined this bland looking piece of candy. "Are you sure?" He asked skeptically, bringing it up to his lips so he could test this for himself. Willy Wonka stopped him._

_"Not yet."_

_Those had been the days when, Charlie admitted, Mr. Wonka had been much taller than himself. At that moment, he crouched down, reaching out to grasp his heir's raised arm. Yet instinct – or his fear of touch – stopped him, and his hand hovered inches above Charlie's arm for a moment, before he hesitantly pulled it back. Charlie lowered his hand, anyways._

"_There will be days, when you need them. Hold on to them until then." He looked at Charlie, his lips slowly curving into a smile. A real smile. From inside. _

That was the bit Charlie remembered most vividly about the memory.

He also recalled thinking Mr. Wonka was exaggerating the whole matter a bit, but had slipped the pieces in his pocket, anyways. He then proceeded to forget about them. Until now.

_There will be days, when you need them…_ Mr. Wonka's voice echoed in his head. He wondered what Mr. Wonka had in mind. Could this be one of them? Did Mr. Wonka know that one day, he would need to reach this darned button?

Eyebrows raised, Charlie stared suspiciously again at the piece of candy lying innocently on his palm. Well, there was nothing for it, really. Worse comes to worse, nothing would happen.

Slowly, he eased the sweet between his lips. A burst of flavor filled his mouth. He couldn't identify what it was, exactly – all he knew was that it was all so tangibly there. And so very delicious. Almost immediately, warmth spread from his very core, down his arms, his legs, to his fingers and toes, shooting straight to his head. He felt dizzy. Pleasantly dizzy.

At the same time, he was vaguely aware that he was floating. Higher, and higher. Shaking his head to clear it, he saw the imprint "Mine" loom closer. He made sure to press the button as soon as he could reach it. The elevator took off.

For once, Charlie failed to admire the exhilarating speed of the glass elevator, and didn't let out that gasp of delight every time it turned a sharp corner. In fact, he could barely feel it – that candy had overwhelmed his sense. He bobbed near the top of the glass pane, enjoying the sensation of being feather light.

By the time the elevator came to a stop, the candy had melted completely in his mouth, and he gently landed back on the ground. Resisting the desire to pop in another piece, he slid open the door, and stepped out, looking around for the first time.

So this was Willy Wonka's "Mine". And Charlie was there.


	3. Fear

_A/N: Thank you, thank you, thank you for all your lovely reviews. I have this urge to say a 'thank you' for every person who reviewed – but I think you get the point, neh? As much as I say I write for myself, you guys have made every time I update a chapter ten times brighter. :)_

_Hmm - I had a lot of trouble with this chapter. It sounds quite broken in some places, to me. And also very out of character. Although I discovered some wonderful clips of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory on yahoo, which have helped me immeasurably. Drop me a note and tell me what you think, neh? My thanks._

_And the chapter... at last._

_Oh yes. Please don't kill me for this chapter's... err, abrupt ending, shall we say._

* * *

… So _this_ was Willy Wonka's "Mine". And Charlie was there.

He was also very disoriented.

For a wild moment, he scrambled to grab a hold of the edges of the glass elevator door, and clung to it tightly once he had found it. Unfortunately, being glass (and quite slippery), he felt his fingers slide slowly – almost imperceptibly slowly – downwards. He was dizzy. And this dizziness wasn't pleasant. It wasn't quite nauseating, either. It was merely bewildering.

Charlie closed his eyes. He shook his head vigorously, waiting for the world to right itself. Literally.

For Willy Wonka's suite – if 'suite' it may be called – was entirely upside down. It was also made out of glass. Almost quite.

Feeling his knees tremble, he wondered what ingredients Mr. Wonka added to his earlier candy creations. Especially that unremarkable, beige, rectangular, fizzy candy of which he just had a piece. Something must have been a hallucinogen.

The glass elevator had brought him to the end of a glass hallway, made out of a glass so fine Charlie wasn't even sure whether it was there half the time. In fact, if it weren't for the seven heavy oak doors that lined the two sides of the hallway (strangely asymmetrical, there were three on one side, and four on the other), Charlie would not have been able to rightly tell where the floor ended, and the walls began. Of course, the entire thing being upside down, meant that the doors were hinged so that the top ledge touched the _ceiling_, as opposed to the bottom edge resting on the floor.

And these doors – they were not comforting in themselves, to be sure. They were painted the most lurid colors of what Charlie assumed made up the rainbow (but who ever heard of a metallic magenta, or neon puce, rainbow?). The seven double doors were tall, imposing, intricately designed, and would not have looked the slightest out of place in an old Victorian villa (minus the colors). However, their presence in this glass hallway made the entire scene seem even more absurd and ludicrous.

_Bad. This is bad, _Charlie thought_, very bad. These colours are _bad.

He stole a glimpse outside, and saw grey misty clouds swirling about him. Above, around, below… He was reminded with a jolt of unhappiness how far up the elevator had taken him. These clouds were unpleasantly chilly looking, depressing, and worst of all, the movement made him sick (especially when, as far as he could tell, he felt like he wasn't standing on anything).

Charlie managed to turn a loud yelp into a much quieter wince, but couldn't keep a gulp from escaping his throat. The result was a noise that sounded much like an elephant in pain. The sound almost made him wince again.

He turned his attention quickly back to the hall, and his eyes focused on a large fountain in the smack middle of the hallway. It was brilliantly lit, and the crystal was carved in the most elaborate of angular planes, so light fairly sparkled in all directions. Upon closer examination (Charlie by this time, had taken two steps away from the elevator, and dimly behind him, heard the unmistakable – and not altogether comforting – sounds of it moving off.), he found it was a not a fountain, but rather, a crystal chandelier protruding from the floor.

You see, in his astonishment of the whole place, he had forgotten everything was upside down. _Poor me_, he thought. If he had considered it carefully enough, he would have found that this was the exact thing Mr. Wonka would have said upon seeing his frantic facial expression, presumably to clear things up for him.

But all it all, it was a beautiful chandelier. Even Charlie had to give it that (after he had gotten over the shock that it _was_ a chandelier).

Gingerly, he glanced past it; half fearing what was still in store for him, half hoping that there was something to bring him back to reality. What he found, albeit very strange still, made him feel more comforted.

Probably because it wasn't glass.

Or it was right side up.

Or both.

At the end of the hallway, was a thick, velvet, purple curtain. It hung from the ceiling, and was long enough that several inches swept the glass floor beneath. Especially in comparison to the glass everything else, this seemed very rich, warm, and inviting to Charlie. He could almost feel the texture of the curtain, which he imaged, felt very much like Mr. Wonka's coats.

He was sure this was where Mr. Wonka was. The entire suite fairly screamed, "Wonka lives here", but beyond that curtain, he was sure, was the true "Mine".

Charlie took several steps towards the curtain, before hesitating, biting his lower lip. He was rather nervous. Sometimes, he didn't know what to say when his mentor sank into one of his 'moods'. This was made harder because Mr. Wonka usually didn't like people to know when he was in a particularly unpleasant mood – whether it be loneliness, anger, or frustration. Anything except pleasantly excited.

He moved towards a double door, stalling for time. And plus, he was curious as to what bizarre rooms would be behind these doors.

Gently, he tugged on both doorknobs, and the heavy looking pickle-green doors swung open without resistance.

In the middle of an empty room (and this room wasn't glass – it was very much bare with whitewashed walls), was a metal barber's chair. By the door, stood a small matching table with a pair of scissors, a comb, and a hand held mirror. Surgically bright fluorescent lights shone overhead, yet somehow, the room was dully lit. Charlie didn't know what he had been expecting, but it wasn't that.

He closed the door quietly. The starkness of that room had been rather depressing. Really, quite unlike Mr. Wonka at all.

He looked at the next door (the metallic magenta) with slight hesitation, yet curiosity overcame him. Almost tiptoeing over, he opened the door carefully, expecting something bizarre and enchanting in this one, at least. The bright pink of the door had undoubtedly been the most eye-catching of them all.

It was Mr. Wonka's closet.

Very much a walk-in closet, it was filled with overcoats – from a bright red, to a deep plum, to black. Just pure black. It reminded Charlie of a fridge full of cherries. The effect was quite delicious, really.

That was, until Charlie caught sight of the shelves above. At first glance, it appeared to be stuffed with bright pink cotton. Or cotton candy. Or wool. Then, as he looked closely, he realized they were undoubtedly in the shape of…undergarments.

Charlie was suddenly reminded of the factory tour that day so long ago, when, in the glass elevator, they had passed by several wholly sheep. Not grazing sheep, but sheep being sheared – sheared of its heavy pink wool.

He recalled Mr. Wonka saying, with quite a nervous – or embarrassed, now that he thought about it – laugh, "Err, I'd rather not talk about this one."

Shaking with amusement, yet also slightly disturbed, Charlie quickly closed the door to Mr. Wonka's closet, deciding that he had seen more than enough. Honestly, there were some things about his mentor, he decided, which he just didn't want to know.

Turning, he found himself close enough to almost touch the curtain-at-the-end-of-the-hallway. There was nothing else for it.

He gripped the folds of the soft (oh, was it ever so soft!) material, and pulled it aside.

It was like a continuation of the hallway. The far side of the room pointed west – Charlie could tell, because through the glass wall, he could glimpse rays of the setting sun through the clouds. However, unlike the hallway, he found he wasn't afraid of the glass here. Rather, the walls and ceiling seemed strangely safe, and _right_, in this room. Perhaps it was due to the fact that the bed (the solitary article of furniture in the room, as far as he could tell) wasn't bolted to the ceiling.

Or perhaps it was the solid presence of the great candy maker, standing in the middle of the room. Although Mr. Wonka had never been particularly reassuring in any form or fashion, Charlie had – subconsciously, of course – grown to trust this strange and peculiar man. Wherever Mr. Wonka was, it must be all right.

He was facing away from Charlie at the moment, so all Charlie could see was his straight (Mr. Wonka _never_ slouched), angular back, and his weird brown haircut partially covered by his hat. His posture looked quite relaxed, yet Charlie sensed that a tension that surged through his body, creating a painful sense of struggle.

For a man would hated anything still and silent, Mr. Wonka was standing both very eerily motionless and noiseless, at the moment.

"Good evening, Little Boy. The Earth says hello."

Charlie stared. Mr. Wonka had relived an old greeting – their very first greeting, at that – in what he assumed was an attempt to break the ice. The effect, however, was quite different. This time, there was no accompanying giggle, nor brilliant displays of pyrotechnics. In fact, ironically, Mr. Wonka wasn't using cue cards this time, but his voice was definitely more mechanical, and (Charlie could barely associate Mr. Wonka with this word) calm.

Yet it had the desired effect on Charlie. He found himself opening his sealed lips and blurting out the first thing that came to mind.

"This room isn't upside down."

Willy Wonka inclined his head so that he could probably see Charlie out of the corner of his eye. "It isn't. No. Of course not." Charlie could hear that his mentor was smiling – however slightly. "Do you expect me to strap myself into my bed? And all the blood would rush into my head, making me all dizzy and… red. That's what hanging from the ceiling does to you, you know."

"Well… I suppose, not really, I mean, it wouldn't be – "

"Yeah. It wouldn't be comfortable at all, you mean. Plus, then I would have to look down _there_ at night. At all the streets and buildings and shops and people and – stuff…"

Mr. Wonka's voice grew a bit uncertain before fading into silence yet again.

It was a pity that Charlie didn't look down at this point, because if he had, it would have saved him a painful snub of the big toe. Alas, he was looking thoughtfully at Mr. Wonka, instead. As it was, he took a step towards the other man (although what he wanted to accomplished by that, even he didn't know.)

"Mr. Wonka, you've – " He started. It was cut off by a painful 'Ouch'. Charlie's big toe had made contact – very painfully, at that – with something hard and metal, which was sticking out from the floor.

"Ouch!" Wonka echoed with vague empathy. "That sounded like it _hurt_."

Charlie barely heard him. He stared at the obstacle in his way. On the elegant glass floor, sprawled like a huge rug, was a framed painting. Not just any painting. Nestled in its golden frame, against a brilliant black background, was depicted a giant set of dentures. The teeth were lily white, surrounded by thin pink lips.

The effect would have been quite grotesquely repugnant, had the mouth not been smiling – a wonderful, warm and fuzzy, cheerful smile.

"What – " He began, and felt he needed to take a breather before continuing. "What," he tried again, "is that?"

"What is that? Oh, that? I believe that's the sunset. Yeah. It's _quite_ nice today – so nice you almost can't see it, see? Oh. That, you mean."

Wonka had finally turned around. "That – well. It's a painting." Then, as if he had just realized that wasn't the type of answer Charlie was looking for, continued. "It's a present, Little Boy. Was. It was a present."

"Oh. For you?"

"Nnnnoo, it's mine. It's from me."

Charlie didn't see how this made an iota of sense. "It's from you, for you?" Then, seeing Mr. Wonka's slight frown, added, "I mean, you had it made for yourself?"

"Oh, no. No, no, no, Little Boy. Actually…" Willy Wonka brought his deep purple gloves together, and Charlie saw that he was trying to hide the fact that he was trembling.

Seeing Mr. Wonka thus distressed, he stepped around the painting, closer to the other man. Although they weren't touching (nothing would have distressed Mr. Wonka more), he hoped it would make the other man feel more secure.

"Actually what?" He prompted.

"I- I made it for – for him."

"_Him_?" Charlie asked, as if the emphasis made all the difference in the world.

"Yeah. Him. You know. Him. _Him_." Seeing Charlie raise his eyebrows, he made another effort and tried again, "My d-d-d-… my – my…"

"Dad", Charlie finally finished, as Mr. Wonka clearly couldn't bring himself to say it.

"Yes, yes, _him_."

Charlie smiled, feeling a sudden surge of warmth and affection for this man. Mr. Wonka might be a genius (quite an aloof one, at that), insane, mad, totally ignorant and very socially unaccepted – yet he thought he had never met anyone more considerate.

"Well, why didn't you give it to him?"

Sometimes Charlie wasn't the most tactful person. And Mr. Wonka wasn't the most receptive or observant person, but he did understand that.

"I couldn't give it to him – not by _myself_. I couldn't visit him _alone_. It's scary, you know. And then I thought and thought about it, and made up my mind to do it – to go see him, I mean. I think I wanted him to _like_ me. (And here our dear Willy Wonka looked aghast at the thought.) But then, well, he was gone, just like that, wasn't he?"

"Oh." In his guilt that he had forgotten yet _again_, that was all Charlie could bring himself to say. Although he was somewhat relieved to see that his mentor didn't look all that upset. Finally, he said, "I'm sorry. Are you… doing well?"

Mr. Wonka looked at him, lips slightly parted in thought. He waited, assessing and expectant. This wasn't what Charlie wanted to say, and they both knew it.

"Mr. Wonka…" He collected his muddled wits. "You've been hiding from us – all week." He accused gently.

"Nuh-uh. No I haven't." Willy Wonka defended before he could help it.

Charlie raised his eyebrows.

A helpless giggle. "You know it's really weird when you do that? You really shouldn't do that, you know. Don't. Don't talk like that."

Charlie raised his eyebrows further still.

"Urgh. _Fine_. Though I hope you know I still don't like it."

He seemed to be struggling with himself. His eyes lost their bright focus on his protégé, and he muttered almost silently to himself. Charlie thought he caught words like, "should be time…", "he said I should…" and "I do, really, I want to…".

Curiously, Charlie waited a moment, then two. When over ten minutes had passed, and Willy Wonka had no apparent intention of explaining himself, he asked tentatively. "Mr. Wonka? What is it?"

He felt the violet gaze focus on him once more. A long moment later, Willy Wonka said in a calm (again? Charlie thought.) and unnaturally (thus unsettling) soft voice, "I think I'm going to give you something, first. I _think_ you've won." He sounded particularly surprised at hearing the words come out of his own mouth

"Won? Won what?" Charlie asked, genuinely confused.

Slowly, the great candy maker reached into his inner coat pocket, and pulled out a large, metal object.

A key.

He held it out. It was larger than his palm; it's shiny gold contrasting sharply with Mr. Wonka's purple glove.

Charlie reached for it. It was heavier than it looked, and the metal rested hard and cold against his hand. He traced the large, flourished 'W' slowly, and felt Mr. Wonka's eyes following it. He had realized what it was.

He had seen this key before. It wasn't used for anything, really, but it stood for much. Everything, in fact.

This was the key. THE key.

In his hand, was the key to Mr. Wonka's chocolate factory.


End file.
